


You've Always Counted

by DoctorRainyStardusttheThird (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood and Injury, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Guilty John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Other, PTSD Sherlock, Sherlolly is real, Suicidal Sherlock, Suicide Attempt, Suicide Notes, guilty everyone, i love torturing poor old sherlock, lots of sad sad sad, sherlock thinks everything is his fault, when do i stop tagging
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-09
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-06-07 18:23:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 4,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15225219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/DoctorRainyStardusttheThird
Summary: Sherlock comes home from the Hiatus - only to find John has moved on and is refusing to speak to him. Sherlock slips into depression, and begins to wonder exactly how much it must hurt to take his life.Donovan, Anderson and Lestrade, while in the middle of a drugs bust, discover something shocking. A suicide note, from Sherlock.But can they save the consulting detective?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So hi  
> this is my first sherlock fanfic. I'm a new sherlockian, and enjoying it (i'll always be a true whovian at heart tho - as you can imagine i hate moffat a little bit)
> 
> Anyway, i've had trouble with mental health and i've always seen sherlock as mentally unstable - but what if sherlock and john didn't reconcile after reichenbach?
> 
> I ship sherlolly lots and lots (even tho i'm gay af so i should support gay ships, really) and i love molly she deserves the world.
> 
> smiles, hope you enjoy

Sherlock sat alone in 221b Baker Street. His elbows rested on his knees. He wore his oldest, softest t-shirt, a cracked pair of Doc Martens he’d forgotten he owned and a pair of old black sweats.

On the table in front of him was a full syringe, an obsidian blade and a piece of paper, a pen lying on top. The clock was the only sound in the room, ticking away. Time. So endless.

Sherlock felt empty. Numb. John had yelled at him. It was six months after he’d returned, and he was still refusing to let him explain. He’d moved in with Mary and now they were engaged. Lestrade had called about cases but after Sherlock’s twelfth refusal he’d stopped. Sherlock now spent his days travelling round London, working for Mycroft. He prevented terror attacks, investigated drug and trafficking rings, and sat in an expensive office hacking into heavily-protected government databases. He’d had a couple of trips – to Buenos Aires, and to Hong Kong – with Anthea, fellow field agent.

Though he was technically on the MI6 payroll, his work wasn’t really official. He, Mycroft and Anthea were the ones who did the dirty work – assassinations, hacking, keeping the country’s secrets. But maybe he was sick of it.

It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to commit suicide. He’d slit his wrists when he was sixteen, a year after he’d started working for the secret service. Then he’d intentionally overdosed on heroin when he was seventeen. That was when he first met Lestrade.

Sherlock swallowed. This was going to hurt Lestrade. Only six months after discovering Sherlock was alive, he was going to lose him again.

Or maybe he was kidding himself, thinking anyone would care.

The truth was, Sherlock didn’t want to live anymore. He slept maybe less than ten hours a week, and lived on coffee and cigarettes. When he did sleep, nightmares woke him in a cold sweat. Nightmares about Serbia, getting shot in Afghanistan, living undercover in Shanghai. He’d given up trying to keep the memories of his two years dead at bay.

What was the point?

He reached for the syringe, but then his phone rang. It was Mycroft. Sherlock ignored it, but it carried on ringing. Sighing, he picked up.

Mycroft told him quickly, in code, the details of a new case. Sherlock longingly looked at the syringe on the table, then sighed again.

_Solve this case,_ he told himself, _solve the case first._

A text came through from Lestrade. _Triple homicide,_ it said. _Sure you don’t want to take it?_

It seemed like the universe was conspiring against him to keep him here. Perhaps a small part of Sherlock didn’t want to go just yet.

He could save a couple more lives, solve one more murder. He owed it, after all the damage and the grief he’d caused.

_I’ll come over,_ he texted back. _Better not be boring._

But, to make sure he had an incentive, he began to write the note. If John was any example, he ruined lives just be coming into them. So it stood to reason that if he left, things could go back to how they were after he jumped of St Bart’s. Which was, according to John, better.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> very short one here
> 
> lil' bit of lestrade cos he's awesome
> 
> bit of mean anderson and donovan boooooo even tho donovan's hot
> 
> very very short but the next ones a little bit longer
> 
> so there you go hope you like

Lestrade was worried. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock in weeks.

He was glad Sherlock wasn’t dead, but as little as he saw him, he might as well be. He began to think Sherlock was using again. When  he’d refused a fascinating case including a break-in where nothing was stolen and a woman with a poison she’d mysteriously ingested in a coma, Lestrade had known something was wrong.

Even Donovan and Anderson had begun to think so.

‘Um…’ Donovan had said, after three days of no leads, ‘I hate to say it…but maybe we should call the freak?’

Lestrade suspected Donovan and Anderson had felt guilty, especially after Sherlock had been proven innocent, but now Sherlock was alive they had reverted back to their old unpleasant ways. When Sherlock deigned to show up on cases they used their old insults – ‘freak’ and ‘psychopath’ – and made loud comments about Sherlock not giving a damn about how he’d affected his so-called friends, and having fun travelling the world, solving puzzles.

‘I agree,’ Anderson said. ‘He might be an arsehole, but we’re getting nowhere. The press are crawling down our necks.’

Lestrade sighed. Sherlock had refused the case earlier. ‘He said no, guys.’

‘Unlike him to turn down a case like this,’ Donovan mused. ‘He gets off on weird crimes. I suppose he’s off his tits again, isn’t he?’

Lestrade had left without a word.

Now, in his office, he checked his phone. He was more relieved than he was prepared to admit when he saw a message from Sherlock. _I’ll come over. Better not be boring._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> long one now!!
> 
> bit more lestrade but at a crime scene
> 
> very sad sherlock god anderson and donovan are such bitches
> 
> smiles and enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more notes because hi
> 
> i love sherlock because it's sooooo gay but if you want the most lgbtq friendly show in the world seriously watch doctor who:
> 
> lesbian lizard woman  
> smol bisexual clara and little lesbian ashildr  
> jack...just jack  
> main character can shift genders
> 
> anyhoo on we go!

They stood round the crime scene. Donovan, Anderson, Lestrade, a couple of other officers and a few reporters. Clearly hoping to get a glimpse of Sherlock.

Lestrade glanced up when Sherlock appeared. He was dressed in his old Belstaff coat, a grey shirt and cracked Doc Martens. He nodded at Lestrade but didn’t acknowledge anyone else.

Donovan snorted. ‘Can’t even be bothered to say hello to you,’ she muttered to Lestrade. Lestrade glared at her. ‘Hey, freak!’ she called, determined to get a rise out of the detective. ‘High again?’

‘Don’t you go contaminating my crime scene,’ Anderson warned. ‘And don’t touch the bodies. It’s disrespectful. I know that means nothing to you, psychopath that you are, but you know. Normal people care about that kind of thing.’

Sherlock stilled. His ears were buzzing. Why had he come here again?

Sherlock crouched down next to the bodies. Two young men and a woman. All killed from stab wounds to the stomach and chest. Sherlock moved round, not rattling off his deductions in his usual obnoxious manner but staying silent. Anderson and Donovan exchanged looks.

Lestrade watched Sherlock closely. His movements seemed stiff, as if he were in pain. Finally, the consulting detective straightened up and looked Lestrade in the eye.

Lestrade stifled a gasp.

Sherlock had lost a lot of weight. He looked gaunt, cheekbones poking through his skin in a way that made him look skeletal. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, their striking irises dull. His hair was long, and wild, and he’d acquired a scar to his forehead, just above his left eye.

Looking down, Lestrade noticed Sherlock’s hands were shaking violently. There were scars on the knuckles, and on the backs, too. Sherlock cleared his throat.

‘You’re looking for a right-handed killer between the age of twenty to twenty-five. He’s approximately six foot, works in manual labour, and used a four-inch blade for the stabbings. The woman he killed is a previous girlfriend, and he walked in on her having a threesome with the two men. He should be working on a construction site or similar, for extra money while he studies economics, or possibly politics, at a nearby university. The killer drives a van, and lives several miles away, in a run-down area of London, with his new girlfriend, whom he routinely abuses. He has dark hair, tanned skin and wears a silver ring on his left thumb.’ Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and made to leave.

‘Hang on, Sherlock!’ Lestrade called. ‘You need to explain how you –‘

‘ _No,_ Lestrade,’ Sherlock snapped. ‘I have better things to occupy my time.’

Anderson made a derisive sound. ‘What, like getting high in a squalor somewhere?’

Sherlock looked at Anderson blankly for a moment, then turned on his heel and strode away.

His left hand was still shaking.

Lestrade turned slowly to face Donovan and Anderson. ‘He’s on drugs again, isn’t he,’ Donovan said decisively.

‘Think another drugs bust is in order?’ Anderson said, a little too eagerly.

Lestrade rubbed his face. ‘I don’t want to…’ he muttered. ‘But with no John there, he might’ve…slipped back into old habits.’

‘John finally upped and left the freak then?’ Donovan said, her triumph slightly sickening. ‘Matter of time.’

‘Don’t, Donovan,’ Lestrade said sadly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> more reminders
> 
> in this one sherlock works more with mi6 and i've made it so he actually has an official role working for her brother. 
> 
> constructive criticism and prompts welcome!
> 
> plus i'm dyslexic so excuse any possible spelling mistakes *finger guns* xx


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bit longer this time!!
> 
> big long sad note please don't read if anything's triggering (low self-esteem, mentions of suicide etc)
> 
> enjoy you tragic fellow fangirl-sufferers you :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and more notes saying i'm adhd and this is the most i've ever written in one sitting (be proud yay!)
> 
> and i've lost my hearing aid.
> 
> enjoy and comment and kudos and pls :)

One day later, the case was cleared up. The killer had been found, the weapon disposed of in a nearby skip. A four-inch blade, like Sherlock had said. The fingerprints had been identified as a dark-haired, tanned man with a string of previous abuse convictions.

It was seven o’clock by the time the paperwork was finished. Lestrade loosened his tie and headed out to the office where Donovan and Anderson were working, along with a couple of other officers.

‘Guess it’s time for the drugs bust,’ he said tiredly.

Soon he’d collected a team of several people and they were headed to Baker Street. When they arrived, they found a note on the door. Not Sherlock’s handwriting.

_Mrs Hudson is away visiting her sister for a couple of weeks. Leave deliveries next door._

‘Smart lady,’ Donovan muttered. ‘I wouldn’t want that freak getting my deliveries either.’

They ascended the stairs. The door to 221b swung open at a touch, unlocked. The group of eight officers barged inside.

‘Sherlock?’ Lestrade called. ‘Drugs bust.’

There was no sign of the detective.

The officers spread out and began to search Sherlock’s things. The flat was unlit. The curtains were pulled. There were books and papers everywhere – Lestrade interpreted it as the desperate chaos of a man attempting to distract himself from his cravings. But there were no experiments in the kitchen.

Donovan and Anderson were examining the back living room wall. It was covered in notes, pinned neatly in place.

‘Hey, Lestrade, come look at this,’ Donovan said.

The notes seemed to depict a terrorist network Sherlock seemed to have been investigating.

‘How does he know all this stuff?’ Donovan said, looking suspicious. ‘He’s tracking their movements! How does he know where they’re getting their weaponry? How does he know about the network in the first place?’

‘Sally, he’s not _involved,’_ Lestrade said, rolling his eyes. ‘We made the mistake of thinking he was involved last time, and look how that turned out.’

‘But how come he’s got sensitive information on his _walls?_ ’ Anderson said.

Lestrade shrugged. ‘It’s probably work for his brother. Apparently that’s what he was doing during the two years he was…you know. I think his brother is secret service.’

Donovan snorted, but she examined the notes with something akin to jealously this time.

‘Donovan!’ Lestrade said sharply. ‘You are not going to find drugs pinned to the wall. This is a drugs bust, not an excuse to snoop round his flat while he’s not here.’

Donovan huffed, but moved away.

‘Anderson?’ Lestrade said, but Anderson stayed frozen still, staring at the wall. ‘Philip? Hello?’

Anderson reached out a trembling hand and took down a piece of paper. ‘I think you should read this.’

‘What’s it say?’ Donovan said curiously.

Anderson coughed, then said, in a shaking voice, ‘It’s a note. It’s – I can’t –‘

‘Spit it out, Anderson,’ Lestrade said, worried.

_‘_ Read it out to us,’ Donovan said.

Anderson cleared his throat. It took several false starts, but eventually he stuttered out what the note said.

_‘It’s been six months, and nothing has got better. Not for me, not for anyone. So I have reached the inevitable conclusion that it would be easier for everyone if everything went back to how it was when I was ‘dead’.’_

_‘_ What does that mean?’ Lestrade said, but a sick feeling was growing in the pit of his stomach.

_‘I didn’t leave a proper note last time. But this isn’t the same. I don’t want to talk to anyone, because I don’t want anyone to try and convince me to stay. It’s better for everyone if I go._

_Mycroft, I solved your terrorist case. There’s a full write-up on your desk at MI6 headquarters. I’m sorry, but this is necessary. You sent me on that suicide mission two years ago, taking down Moriarty’s network, and I survived. But I don’t think I should have. I saw things I can’t cope with. And I’d rather die at my own hand._

_Lestrade, I’m sorry to do this to you. You have been nothing but kind to me. But I don’t deserve to stay if all I’m doing is causing you pain. I will solve you one last case, but I have realised I don’t get pleasure from saving lives anymore. There’s always going to be another murder, and it feels futile to try and prevent the inevitable. Everyone dies, in the end._

_Molly, you count. You’ve always counted. You’re the person I came to when I needed help, and I would come to you now, but I don’t want to burden you further. You are a beautiful person, and perhaps if I’d been half the person you were, we could have worked out. But you were special. Find yourself someone, someone who cares about you in a way I never let myself. You deserve that._

_Mrs Hudson, I took your deliveries and I cleaned the flat a bit, so you wouldn’t have to after I was gone. Send my things to Mycroft. There’s a box under my bed that contains classified information though; don’t touch that._

_I’m doing it quietly, this time. No one should find this note until after my body is found. I’m going to the place where my life turned round – where I became Sherlock Holmes._

_I’m not a psychopath. I feel things. I want you all to know that I loved you, even if I didn’t show it, and that this is my way of making things easier on you. And the truth is, on me too._

When Anderson stopped reading, the room was frozen. Lestrade was shaking all over, and Donovan looked horrified.

Suddenly, as if waking from a dream, Lestrade lifted his head. ‘Radio the Yard,’ he choked out. ‘Get the best officers looking. Call his brother, call Molly, I don’t care! We need to find him.’

‘Sir…’ Donovan looked like she might cry. ‘He probably wrote this hours ago. We haven’t seen him since yesterday.’

‘He might not have tried yet!’ Donovan felt her heart squeeze painfully at the desperation on his face. ‘He didn’t mean for us to find this note. He might not have been…he might have been waiting. We need to find him!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked ;)
> 
> wrote the suicide note crying along to fob and bastille and...yea
> 
> TRAGIC ANGST and sherlock and omigod i need ice cream
> 
> prompts, constructive criticism etc welcome :) xxx


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> me and my girlfriend settling in for long night watching sherlock!!
> 
> figured i'd post this
> 
> super short but poor poor sherly someone needs to give him a massive hug
> 
> very sad

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> triggers
> 
> suicidal thoughts 
> 
> drug use
> 
> yea so basically lots of sad stuff
> 
> love you all for reading means the world :)

Sherlock was cold.

Snow drifted down, landing on the shoulders of his coat. Nobody came down the back alley behind St Bart’s hospital, and if they had they would’ve assumed he was just another druggie, or a drunk, here for the warmth.

But he was here because this was the place he’d met John.

He’d been working for Scotland Yard since he was eighteen (though Lestrade hadn’t known that – he’d lied about his age) and for the government since he was fifteen. But none of it had really made him feel alive. He’d always drifted back to drugs, in the end.

But when he’d met John, he’d realised that alone wasn’t always the best option. That alone didn’t always protect you. When he’d met John, he’d started opening up more, bit by bit. He’d started caring for Lestrade, and Molly, more than he would have believed possible.

But John was gone.

John hated him.

Sherlock tilted his head back against the wall of the hospital. The rush of the drugs through his veins was wearing off now. He knew he would die, eventually, from the overdose he’d taken earlier. A cocktail of drugs designed to give him a moment’s peace.

But he wasn’t dying fast enough. What if someone found him before the drugs had done his work?

Sherlock could feel the blade in his pocket. He lifted a trembling hand. The crescent-shaped scar on his inner wrist looked vivid and white in the twilight. He felt for the blade. Might as well do this properly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so lestrade is going to try and save the day!
> 
> molly in this chapter xx
> 
> have i mentioned i love molly? smol and tough and really cute. my girlfriend and me are both seriously crushing on her xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my fingers are sore from typing!
> 
> ...and also maybe because my insomnia was playing up and i did a sherlock and spent last night playing the guitar on the porch...
> 
> moving on!
> 
> hope you like xx

Lestrade was in a police car. Donovan was beside him, radioing round for news, and Anderson was in the back.

They stopped outside St Bart’s, and rushed out. Some of his team were contacting Mycroft. Together, the three Yarders rushed down the hospital stairs, to the lab next to the morgue.

‘Molly,’ Lestrade panted, bursting in on her. She jumped terribly, dropping the scalpel she was holding.

‘Greg?’ she said. Her gaze fell on Donovan and Anderson behind him, and her face hardened. ‘Why are you here? Is it Sherlock?’

‘Um – yes, no…Molly, has he spoken to you recently?’

‘He…’ Molly bit her lip. Sherlock had asked her not to say anything. But Lestrade looked urgent – almost frightened. ‘He was at my flat a couple of nights ago,’ she admitted.

‘Why?’ Lestrade’s eyes were wild. ‘Did he say anything to you?’

‘He told me he hadn’t slept in days,’ Molly said, fear growing in her chest, ‘because of the nightmares. Because of what happened when he was away. You – you know what happened, right?’

Lestrade stumbled back, pressing his hands to his eyes. ‘God,’ he muttered. Sherlock’s words echoed in his head. _I saw things I can’t cope with._

‘What’s happening?’ Molly’s voice rose. ‘Is Sherlock alright?’

‘Molly, can you think of anything he might have said to you? Even the most insignificant detail right now would help.’

‘I was looking after his back. I check the scarring and his lungs and his ribs to make sure everything was healing okay.’

‘Healing from what?’ Lestrade said, momentarily side-tracked.

Molly’s eyes widened. ‘You don’t – he hasn’t – forget I told you.’

In his desperation, Lestrade let it slide. ‘He didn’t say anything to you about – maybe, dying?’

Molly dropped the beaker she was holding. It smashed across her shoes, but she didn’t pay it any attention. ‘Has he tried to kill himself again?’ she said, voice hysterical.

‘We – we found a note…’

Molly closed her eyes. ‘He said – he was more emotional than I’d seen him. He was tired – I’d woken him up from a nightmare. He started talking…he said I’d changed his life. Me and…you, Greg. And he said John had given him his life. Taught him to care. He said John made him Sherlock Holmes.’

Lestrade froze. ‘Say that again.’

‘He – he said John made him Sherlock Holmes.’

_I’m going to the place where my life turned around – where I became Sherlock Holmes._

Lestrade spun round. ‘You two – go to John’s flat. Find out what he’s said to Sherlock, whether he’s seen him…Go!’

‘Greg!’ Molly yelled. He turned back. She looked terrifying, her gloves covered in blood and a dripping scalpel in her hand. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

Lestrade winced. ‘Sherlock left a note – a suicide note – pinned to his flat wall. He – he said he’s going to the place where he became Sherlock Holmes and – and you just said –‘

‘He told me John made him Sherlock Holmes,’ Molly breathed. Her eyes were filled with tears and her breathing was fast with panic, but she was still thinking surprisingly clearly. All she knew is she would not let Sherlock die. She would _not._

‘Molly,’ Lestrade said, ‘do you know where Sherlock and John met?’

‘They met here,’ Molly said, stripping her gloves off and tugging off her lab coat. ‘They met _here,_ in this lab.’

‘Molly, you don’t suppose he could be somewhere in the hospital, do you?’

Her eyes widened. Fear swept across her face. ‘He could be on the roof again.’

Exchanging a moment of terror, the two fled from the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so they're off to save the day - but what if they can't?
> 
> guess you'll have to read the next chapter to find out!
> 
> (is this how moffat and gatiss feel when they write a cliffhanger? if so, i understand why they do it. makes you feel powerful)


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bit of a filler chapter because i've had a bit of writers block
> 
> hope you like xx

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so yea things are going to start happening soon
> 
> just to clear it up anderson didn't have a nervous breakdown - he didn't blame himself for sherlock's jump so he's functioning just fine, like sally
> 
> also john's a bit of an arsehole in this one - he moved out and left sherlock on his ownio :(
> 
> enjoy! xx

Molly and Lestrade rushed up onto the hospital roof. Night was falling fast, and a light snow drifted down to the tarmac many floors below.

Lestrade swallowed, remembering Sherlock’s cold and bloodied body laid down on the ground. He looked round.

The roof was empty.

‘He’s not here,’ Molly said blankly. She clenched her fists. ‘If he’s not here where is he?’

‘I don’t know,’ Lestrade said. A cold wind whipped round him. ‘I don’t know, I don’t know…’

‘We could search the rest of the hospital…’ Molly suggested. Her hands were shaking, and not from the cold.

Lestrade put an arm round her. He was trembling too. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find him,’ he murmured. She smiled weakly.

‘Where else could he be?’

‘We’ll search round the hospital,’ Lestrade said, moving for the stairs again. ‘I’ve got officers asking John about any places he could be…Mycroft is out looking too.’

‘Sherlock won’t be anywhere Mycroft can find him, he’s – he’s too smart for that.’

They were rushing down  the hospital corridors – Lestrade was on his phone. ‘What?’ he said. He hung up.

‘John and Sherlock had an argument about a week ago. Sherlock – he went round John’s to try and explain and John kicked him out again. Said things had been – better for him when Sherlock was –‘

Molly was staring at him in horror.

‘While Sherlock was – away.’

‘I could _kill_ him!’ Molly yelled. She began to stride off. Her shoulders were shaking. With fear, but with anger too. ‘Does he have _any_ idea what those words would have _done_ to Sherlock? Does he have any idea what Sherlock’s done for him these last three years?’

Lestrade hurried after her. Molly seemed slightly hysterical. ‘Hey -  hey, Molly,’ he said nervously. ‘It’s – it’s okay, okay? We’ll find him. We have to find him.’

They made their way out the front of the hospital. _The place where I became Sherlock Holmes…_

‘He met John _here,_ in this hospital, he has to be here…’ Lestrade spun on the spot in the bitter air while ambulances screamed past and the hospital staff gave him a wide birth. He put his head in his hands.

‘We could look down the back alleys,’ Molly suggested, her voice oddly firm. ‘Mycroft won’t have as much security there…’

Without another word, Lestrade took off, Molly close behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it xx
> 
> i want to start writing a new story so feel free to leave a prompt in the comments below 
> 
> love y'all for reading :)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Molly find Sherlock.
> 
> But can they save him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay, for starters...
> 
> so so so so so so so sorry for the long wait between chapters! i'll be amazed if anyone ever reads this - i would've given up on this fic ever being updated a long time ago. i just couldn't find any inspiration.
> 
> it's a measly little chapter because i couldn't think of anything to write. if you guys want another chapter, you're going to have to leave prompts and ideas in the comments, because seriously, i'm running on empty.
> 
> hope you like it, anyway. check out my other stuff, if you like. i've been procrastinating this story a lot, so there are a bunch of new fics i've written for you, anyway xx
> 
> thanks for reading :)

Lestrade and Molly raced round the corner.

Night was falling fast. The streetlamps barely lit all the little alleyways behind the hospital and there was a cold, dank smell.

Molly shivered.

‘Sherlock?’ she called, voice cracking.

‘Sherlock? Are you here?’ Lestrade yelled.

His voice reverberated off of the graffiti-stained walls.

Molly ran forwards, getting lost in the low-hanging fog. Her trainers pounded against the tarmac. She was soon out of sight.

Suddenly Lestrade heard a piercing scream.

‘Molly? Molly, where are you?’ he called in desperation.

‘Here! Lestrade, I’m here! Call 999! Get a doctor, quickly, quickly, please.’ Molly’s voice was ragged and terrified, and her cries tailed off into a frightened sob.

‘Have you found him?’

‘He’s…he’s…’

Lestrade felt a shower of ice-cold fear drench him at the terror in her voice.

‘He’s alive,’ Molly breathed. Lestrade could see her as she rounded the corner. She was silhouetted in the sickly yellow of a streetlamp, crouched over a comatose figure on the ground. There was something dark on the tarmac, spreading to where Lestrade stood. Warm, and…sticky.

Lestrade felt bile rise in his throat.

‘Is he breathing?’ Molly was sobbing and shaking Sherlock. ‘Molly, is HE BREATHING?’

She flinched as he yelled, but Lestrade couldn’t bring himself to feel bad.

‘Yes,’ she wept. ‘Please, please, Lestrade, get someone. I can’t leave him.’ She was pleading.

‘Okay,’ Lestrade muttered. He couldn’t look at Sherlock, unconscious on the ground. He was still in his Belstaff coat, Lestrade noticed, hysterical laughter bubbling up in his throat. The arrogant git was obsessed with that coat. As he rushed back towards the lights and sounds of A&E, in that crazy kind of clarity that comes with a panicked situation, he wondered why. What made Sherlock so attached to that coat?

Would he ever get to find out?

Don’t think like that, he scolded himself. He rushed towards the reception desk.

It’s not to late, he prayed. It won’t be too late.

Please.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's so short and cliff-hanger-y :)
> 
> leave prompts and ideas in the comments pls pls xx
> 
> love ya'll :)


	9. Author's Note

I'm going on holiday for a few weeks so I won't be updating for a while :( Hang in there tho

 

I'm sorry to leave you on a cliffhanger xx

 

Love you guys for reading, you're the best :)


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly and Lestrade wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know i know i know!! it's been ages. i've been away for a month getting rained on with no wifi, so i haven't been able to update. i'm back now, but i'm out of ideas, so this is just a wee filler chapter for you all. hope you enjoy it nad sorry for the wait :)

Lestrade and Molly sat silently in the relative’s room of Bart’s hospital. Lestrade tapped his fingers against his knee. Molly was sobbing quietly in her hand, but Lestrade couldn’t bring himself to try and comfort her. He could only sit there, as the seconds ticked by, and his mate was in the other room, maybe dying.

He’d already sent texts to Donovan and Anderson, telling them Sherlock had been found. He was pretty sure Sherlock’s pompous arse of a brother would be along soon, with his creepy omniscience.

He didn’t want to call John. He couldn’t call John.

He pulled his coat tighter round himself. It was warm and brightly lit in the hospital, but he still felt cold. The black of the alley where they’d Sherlock seemed to permeate every part of him.

After an indeterminate stretch of silence, Lestrade swallowed. His throat felt dry. ‘Molly,’ he said.

She lifted her head. Her mousy hair fell in her eyes. ‘Hm?’

Lestrade cleared his throat. ‘You said…in the lab…has he tried to kill himself again. Again.’ He felt cold in the pit of his stomach.

Molly scrubbed at her big brown eyes. ‘Yes, I – I did.’

Lestrade’s voice didn’t seem to be working properly. ‘Has he done something like this before?’

Molly made a small, choked noise, and Lestrade thought maybe it wasn’t the time. He tried not to think about Sherlock’s chances. The nurse they’d spoken to had said comforting, but essentially meaningless things.

‘He’s been struggling,’ Molly whispered. ‘A lot. Since…everything that’s happened…’

Fear gripped Lestrade. ‘What happened to him, Molly?’

She shook her head. ‘I can’t say. He didn’t want you to know.’

‘Does John?’

A flicker of anger passed across Molly’s face. ‘He doesn’t deserve to,’ Molly spat.

Lestrade moved back, a little unnerved. He didn’t know the timid little pathologist had that kind of rage in her.

‘The two years he spent away…’ Molly said hesitantly. ‘They weren’t easy, you know? They weren’t easy for him. Awful things happened…’

‘And you know about them,’ Lestrade said. It wasn’t accusing.

‘Yes – I do.’ Molly straightened a little, though she still looked desperately sad. ‘He might tell you if he…’

 _If he pulls through,_ Lestrade finished, flinching away from the thought.

‘He trusts you, you know?’ Molly was saying. ‘You did a lot for him. Helped him get clean.’

She sank her head into her hands. ‘I thought I did enough for him,’ she mumbled, voice muffled. ‘I thought he was going to be okay.’

Before Lestrade could say anything, the door opened.

When Lestrade saw the nurse, he stood up, ‘Is he okay? Is he going to be alright?’

‘There’s no certainty yet, sir,’ she said tentatively. ‘But I’m sure you’ll know soon if the prognosis is good.’

‘Why are you here then?’ Lestrade said bluntly.

‘Sorry, sir,’ she said. ‘But Mr Holmes’s emergency contact is a Doctor John Watson? Should I call him?’

‘No,’ Molly snapped at the same time Lestrade said, ‘yes.’

The nurse looked mildly confused.

‘Call him,’ Lestrade said abruptly. ‘He should know.’

Molly looked furious, then the expression faded. ‘When can we see him? Sherlock?’

The nurse smiled reassuringly. ‘Soon, I’m sure,’ she said. She didn’t want to give them false hope, but they needed something.

She left, and Molly and Lestrade sank back into their silent reverie. Molly kept clenching and unclenching her fists. Donovan had sent Lestrade a text. _How’s he doing?_

 _Now she cares,_ Lestrade thought bitterly. But he felt guilty too. He thought it might engulf him. It was painful.

The seconds ticked by. Lestrade tensed. _Something’s wrong,_ he thought. _It’s been too long._

At that moment the door opened again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hope you liked it :)
> 
> any ideas and story prompts are welcome. i've come to a kind of block with this one xx


	11. Author's Note

Hi, it’s me.

This is a note to say I’m really really sorry, but I won’t be posting anything anymore.

There’s a good reason for this, but I’d rather not say what it is.

I won’t be contactable, and I’m really sorry. If anyone wants to finish writing my stories for me, cause I know I left some really awful cliffhangers, I’ll put the rest of the storyline below. I know how annoying unfinished fanfic is.

You’ve been amazing readers and I’ve loved reading your comments, made my day 

**Author's Note:**

> i love prompts so pls leave some in the comments
> 
> i also love constructive criticism so pls :)
> 
> a japanese gay fangirl at your service, hope you liked


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